To Shape to the Comfort of Us
by varjaks
Summary: "Dilated pupils, increased heart rate, dry mouth, heavy breathing—I know what those things point to, John. I don't need you or Mycroft Holmes to state the obvious." (AU Swaplock; Post-TRF)
1. To Shape to the Comfort of Us (1)

**Brief explanation on headcanon:** My headcanon is definitely different to what you've probably read in Doctor WTF's amazing _I am Swaplocked_ and other swaplock fics_._ Basically, Molly is the brillant consulting detective who works with her blogger/flatmate/(best) friend John Watson. The coldness/aloofness we associate with Sherlock on the show is tempered by the loving relationship she had growing up with a father, who did his best to understand her. She's also a bit more aware of what's "good" and "not good." Sherlock, on the other hand, is the brillant pathologist in St. Bart's who didn't inherit the Holmesian brain. He's definitely more attuned to his feelings, essentially a "normal bloke," though he isn't bumbling and awkward like Martin Crieff. His privileged upbringing as a Holmes presents itself in how he dresses (still the same as on the show) and the sureness of how he holds himself (though this sometimes slips when he's around Molly). The other characters are unchanged.

A/N: The title of this is taken from Ellie Goulding's "I Know You Care."

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters. If I did, Molly and I would be best friends and we'd have weekly coffee dates in Speedy's.

* * *

**I.**

Sherlock Holmes is sure he's on the verge of suffocation. Granted he's on his favorite armchair in 221B Baker Street, safely on land and away from trained assassins (he's heard enough stories and read countless police reports), the room looks like it's fallen on its side. The air falls heavy on his skin and he shakes his hands to rid them of the feeling.

"Tea." The soft voice draws his attention to the small woman on his couch. Molly Hooper, the world's only consulting detective (_until six hours and one should be fatal jump ago,_ his brain supplies through the haze it's been in all day), smoothes the creases on the dress an assistant of Mycroft's dropped off this morning.

"Please," Molly adds in the same scratchy voice that makes Sherlock think that she must feel it more than him. And why shouldn't she? Even from a safe distance, he can feel the world tilt under the pressure of what they had done and what has yet to start.

Sherlock makes it to the kitchen without stumbling and switches on the kettle. He finds the new box of teabags he picked up yesterday and turns from the cabinet to find Molly laying out the tea set on a tray. A feeling, warm and heavy in his chest, grips him as he watches her open another cabinet to get the hidden container of sugar cubes he only uses when there is company.

"Mycroft's sending a car within the hour," Molly says, her eyes meeting his even as she pours milk into the creamer.

"So soon?" The words are out before Sherlock can stop himself. He crosses the kitchen to turn off the kettle, glad for an excuse to keep his back to her now. "Don't you need time to plan this out with Mycroft?"

"Your brother is eager to finish this as soon as possible," she replies by way of explanation and he hears her set the tray on the nearest table.

Sherlock nods as he steeps two teabags into the teapot. He's observed enough to figure out that Molly is under the employ of his brother in the strangest sense of the word. There's a lot of hushed talking in the empty hallway outside the laboratory, and sometimes an argument will carry past the closed doors ("Mycroft, I am in the middle of a very important case _infinitely more interesting_—" "May I remind you Miss Hooper—"); argument or not, it always ends with Molly walking out of St. Bart's, a folder at her side, as Mycroft watches on smugly. Lestrade once threw him the smallest of hints about the arrangement having to do with Molly's past; as to what the past is and how Mycroft fits into it…well, those are secrets Sherlock's not sure he'll ever learn.

Sherlock carries the teapot to the kitchen table and moves more of his medical journals to make room. He pours the tea into the cups and fixes one (milk and two sugars) before handing it to Molly. If he notices the slight tremor in her hands as she sets it down, he doesn't comment.

.

.

**II.**

Two months pass and on most days it feels like the ground beneath Sherlock's feet is giving away completely. He meets with John a week after the funeral but they spend more time sipping their coffees instead of actually talking. Right before they leave, John just barely manages to ask if he's sure ("one hundred percent sure" is the whisper that fills the empty cafe) that it was Molly Hooper they laid to rest. Sherlock nods and puts a hand on the other man's shoulder before leaving for Mycroft's office.

The least he can do now for John is to make sure that Molly is safe, _still alive_, wherever she is.

.

.

**III.**

Mycroft never tells him where Molly is so he turns to the news instead. He follows headlines and small online write-ups about men and women, found dead or conveniently reported to the Interpol, with connections to what the media simplifies as a "global terrorist organisation." As he lists the newest city in his notebook, Sherlock often finds himself imagining Molly, bundled in her oversized coat and her soft knitted cap pulled over her ears, tracking down leads across unfamiliar streets halfway across the world.

On the first Christmas after the Fall, Sherlock opens his front door to find Mycroft with his usual briefcase. There is a heavy weight in his chest as his brother hands him a brown envelope over their cups of tea. Sherlock carefully tears the seal and pulls out a photo of Molly from across the street taken two days ago according to the timestamp. The weight disappears and Mycroft must read it because the look in his brother's eyes changes; more than anything, it reminds him of Molly after he told her that he doesn't count.

"Munich," Mycroft says after a long pause. It's the first time Sherlock gets anything more than the usual note with the last date and time Molly contacted Mycroft. His brother lowers his empty cup on the table and gets back on his feet. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock follows his brother to the door. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

—

Later that night, he brings out the envelope with his notebook of cities and bundles of Mycroft's notes. Sherlock adds Munich to the list before studying the photograph again. Past the shock of seeing Molly's hair chopped to a bob that barely grazes her chin, his eyes fall on the thick blue scarf around her neck. Sherlock remembers when he gave it to her the night she left, mumbling something about the unseasonably cold weather outside. Molly stepped up and cut off his words with a brief press of her lips to his cheek.

"Thank you, Sherlock Holmes," Molly whispered, smiling softly, before walking out of his flat.

Sherlock feels his cheeks flush at the memory, the colour deepening when he sees the proof that she's kept it this far. He shakes his head, puts everything back in the envelope, and hides it away again.

.

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**IV.**

It is a year later and Sherlock stands in front of what the world believes is Molly Hooper's grave. John, leaning against his walking stick, says a few words but his eyes are trained on a spot above the headstone. Silence follows, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade to quietly agree to give John time alone with his thoughts.

Sherlock bids goodbye to the newly reinstated Deputy Inspector and turns the opposite way to to find a cab home. The lights in his flat are open when he arrives in Baker Street but he doesn't think much of it. Mrs. Hudson likes to tidy up whenever she comes home early from her sister's, choosing to take out her frustration on the kitchen counters with a brush.

"I hope you don't mind." Sherlock misses the peg completely and his coat drops to the ground. He steps cautiously into the kitchen as his mind still struggles to catch up with the current situation. Molly Hooper pushes a cup of tea towards his side of the table before continuing to pull out the pins that hold her blonde wig in place. "I finished the last of your sugar cubes while waiting. I thought it would be polite to tell you even if you only use them when Mycroft or I visit."

"Right," he says eventually. Sherlock downs nearly half his tea even as it burns on the way down. _Good, so this is real then. _

Molly looks at him, amused, before pulling off the wig completely. "There's still some water in the kettle if you want more." She runs a hand through her hair that falls in familiar waves to her shoulders. "I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing back in London when I was just in Dubai on Monday."

Sherlock sips the rest of his tea carefully and turns his eyes to the single suitcase on the floor.

"Don't worry, I didn't find your folder—though I assume you have one or an envelope hidden in your room. Maybe behind a bookshelf." He thinks that Molly might say something about sentiment but she only reaches for her drink. "There are rumors I need to verify here before making my next move."

"Okay, what do you need me to do?" Sherlock asks, suddenly alert as he looks to her.

There's something strange in Molly's stare that sucks all the air out of the room. _Maybe I'm just not used to it anymore,_ he reasons with himself. And still, there's _something_ there can't put a finger on, _something_ he doesn't dare assume is—

Molly stands up and walks to her suitcase to put away her wig. "Mycroft will have someone pick me up in the morning. The faster I finish this, the earlier I can go back to woking for him. Until then…"

Sherlock's still reeling when she turns to him expectantly. "Oh! Of course you can stay here. If you plan on sleeping tonight, you can stay in my room." His words catch up with him and he feels the heat rising to his ears as he hurries to add "I'll be on the couch!"

Molly smiles and picks up her suitcase with one hand, her unfinished cup of tea in the other. "Thank you again. Jet lag is catching up with me and I need to adjust."

"Yes, I'll just change my sheets if you'd like." Molly throws him a look that has the colour rushing back to his face. "Not that I would—I mean, of course, I—_everyone does it—_I just, I thought you might want crisp new sheets on your first night back."

She's always had a way of making him trip over his words like no one else can. Sherlock's sure that Mycroft is somewhere clucking his tongue disapprovingly at the footage, adding a "What would Mummy say?" for good measure like he used to do when it would happen around him in St. Bart's.

"Yes, I'd like that," Molly says at length, leading him down the right corridor.

She watches him carefully redress the bed with aubergine sheets and wonders if it is a conscious decision. She did compliment him about a similarly coloured shirt once; Molly pointed out how the colour of the shirt beneath his lab coat complimented the paleness of his skin, and Sherlock, suddenly flushed, hurried to uncover the body she needed. John had looked at her with furrowed brows before his face cleared and he nodded approvingly for reasons she didn't bother to ask after.

—

Sherlock wakes up on the couch to his alarm at five in the morning, the sky still as inky as when he fell asleep reviewing the data for his next paper. He hesitates outside his bedroom before turning the doorknob as quietly as possible; his goal is to get in, find some clothes for the day, and sneak back out without waking his guest. Sherlock thinks that between traveling and taking down an underground criminal empire, Molly doesn't find much time to rest.

He's just past the threshold when he notices that the bed is empty and made. There is, however, a present that waits on the bedside table. Sherlock carefully removes the red wrapping paper and uncovers a paperback edition of _Beekeeping for Dummies_. Surprised, he leafs through it and stops on the title page where Molly's slanted cursive spells out his name.

.

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**V.**

The temperature drops again in London and Sherlock's list of cities take up another two pages. He files away Mycroft's latest report (December 12, 22:14) with the others and wonders about what's keeping Molly in Dublin. Those niggling thoughts at the back of his mind grow as a week passes without a new note. Sherlock tries not worry—distracts himself with extra hours in the morgue and reminds himself of the dangerous cases Molly's finished in the past—but those thoughts are plaguing him relentlessly by the second week.

The ride to the Diogenes Club takes only ten minutes but he's worked himself into a state even as he calmly hands the bills to the cabbie. Sherlock strides past departing members in the stairway and heads for the last room on the second floor.

"Where is she, Mycroft?" he demands without waiting for the doors to shut behind him. "What are you not telling me?"

"Cigarette?"

Sherlock stills and warily eyes the stick Mycroft offers him. "Isn't there a law against smoking indoors?"

"Ah, well, it's Christmas Eve." The thin smile on his brother's face tells him half of the answers. Sherlock takes the lit cigarette and moves to the opposite armchair; they sit there in silence as Sherlock puffs away and draws in the smoke as deep as he can without choking.

It takes a while but he eventually gets tired of Mycroft watching him curiously. "Do you think she's still in Dublin?" _Alive _is the word that hangs between them so clearly that Sherlock doesn't bother to say it. He can't.

"Yes." If Sherlock can only read people as well as his brother and Molly can, he'd be able to put together the more important half of the story. Mycroft does his best not to hide anything and waits to see if this is the moment when Sherlock's Holmesian brain is forced into existence. A moment passes in silence before Mycroft shakes his head, disappointed. "But it's been nearly two weeks. If she doesn't come back on the radar in the next few days…"

"Right. Of course." Sherlock puts out the cigarette in the crystal ashtray, re-adjusts the collar of his coat, and heads out of the door.

—

It's a stupid idea but Sherlock still finds himself searching for tickets to Dublin when he arrives on Baker Street. Over take-away containers from Angelo's, he's brainstorming possible ways he can leave London without alerting Mycroft (zero chances) when there is a knock on his door.

"Mrs. Hudson, not now!" But the knocks get more persistent and Sherlock huffs to the door. The frown on his face disappears in record time as he stands there blinking at Molly, who is glassy-eyed and leaning heavily on the adjacent wall.

"Your landlady is out on a date with the shop owner next door," she says, out of breath. "Also, you're usually more accommodating than this. I was hoping to get medical attention."

Sherlock reaches Molly just as her knees finally buckle from utter exhaustion and the pain in her side. He tries not to jostle her while helping her to the couch, shoving off his things with his feet to clear the space. "Can you tell me your injuries? A concussion I should know about?" Sherlock half-shouts as he runs to his room for the first-aid kit.

"No concussion. I catalogued bruises on my right ribs, a sprained left wrist, and minor scratches on my legs. It only looks this bad because it's been nearly ninety-six hours since I've slept."

"Three days?" Sherlock asks incredulously when he returns to the sitting room.

"Give or take five hours."

"Okay, let's patch you up. I'll need to unbutton your blouse—" Molly nods, shutting her eyes for a well-deserved rest (much to Sherlock's relief). He unfastens the buttons carefully and pushes aside the cloth to reveal angry purple marks on her torso. "Did you jump off another building?" Sherlock jokes as he takes out a roll of bandage from the kit.

"Second floor," Molly bites out between measured breaths. Sherlock frowns down at her but continues to secure the bandage as gently as he can. "The window was the only viable escape route at the time. Mycroft can usually be counted on for a discreet on-call physician but my mobile broke on impact."

"You're lucky that it's just bruising and nothing's fractured or broken. How did you even get here without people noticing?" Sherlock hands Molly a compress for her bruised side before tending to her left wrist. He traces the bones, double checking the injury, and counts the rapid pulse thrumming against his fingers. He tries to match this data to the unreadable look on her face. _Adrenaline,_ his reason dictates in the voice of his brother.

"Irene's heavily tinted car," Molly mumbles distractedly as she relaxes further into the cushions.

"Irene Adler?" Sherlock turns to her sharply as the name brings to mind a body—_a very dead body_—in his morgue. "Are you two starting a club I should know about?"

Molly waves it off and falls asleep as he cleans the scratches on her shins.


	2. To Shape to the Comfort of Us (2)

A/N: Sorry it took me a while to update this. So this is the last part of my Swaplock fic. Must say I'm really proud of how this turned out and I'm glad some of you enjoy it. I was told that the original summary sounds depressing as hell so hopefully this new one is a step up.

Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.

* * *

**VI.**

"Thank you for the book," Sherlock says the next evening as he puts away the leftovers. "I didn't know you listened to me ramble about bees in the lab."

"You're welcome. And of course I always listen," Molly replies, still typing away on her laptop. She woke up a little more than an hour ago, much to Sherlock's simultaneous relief and concern; that warm, heavy feeling settled comfortably in his chest when he woke up to find her still in his sitting room. Clean, her injuries checked, and full from their lasagna dinner, Molly is pulling up all the information she can get on a man her last target had called Sebastian Moran. "I sort the information, delete what is useless, and the important ones are stored in my mind palace."

Sherlock walks to the couch with two cups of coffee and a stack of classified folders that Mycroft's assistant handed him this morning. "Why is my interest in beekeeping important?"

Why, indeed. Molly remembers John asking her about that the day after the Christmas party; he lectured her on how terrible it was to embarrass Sherlock in front of everyone and how the right thing to do now is to apologise with a gift. John gave her some truly questionable suggestions ("I know we can't all be consulting detectives, but have you ever even seen him wear a jumper?") before she declared that if she was buying Sherlock anything, it would be something about bees.

"Exactly how are bees a better choice?" John had asked, arms crossed defensively over his bright red Christmas jumper. Molly summarized Sherlock's last five minute monologue on bees when John looked at her more suspiciously than before. "Since when do you file away the interests of other people outside of a case?"

Still as clueless as she was two years ago, Molly ignores Sherlock's question and opens a new window on her screen "Did Mycroft text any additional information after those folders were dropped off?"

Just because she doesn't have the answer doesn't mean other people have to know.

.

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**VII.**

Sherlock turns the box in his hands and contemplates his gift again. He can say that it's a thank you for the book. _Besides, Molly needs a new mobile, right?_How is she supposed to track down Moran and send her reports to Mycroft without one? Honestly, it's a necessity. As for putting his number on speed dial—

_What if she's hurt again? What if she needs to relay information when Mycroft isn't picking up his mobile? What if she wants to check in on John? _His mind throws out reason after reason until he slips the box into her suitcase.

Sherlock steps out of the bedroom with her suitcase in one hand, and finds Mycroft and Molly putting away the last of the files. His brother looks to his face then the suitcase, and the same look Sherlock remembers from two Christmases ago passes over Mycroft's face.

"I'll make the necessary calls then, Miss Hooper. Sherlock," Mycroft greets him but says nothing more before exiting the flat with his mobile pressed to an ear.

"As someone with a medical degree, I don't recommend jumping from a building any time soon," Sherlock quips when he hands over Molly's luggage. She looks at him, her eyes large and flecked with gold in the dim yellow light, and his mouth settles into a grimace. "Sorry, bad joke. Just…just try to take better care of yourself this time."

Molly nods slowly and steps towards him. "I would never jump from a building unless it is absolutely necessary." She's still studying his face like one of her petri dishes, and he expects her to say something about the gift or the picture of herself in Munich she found yesterday evening—_anything_ but her lips on that invisible line between cheek and mouth. _Three, _he tallies as he commits it to memory next to the kiss from the Christmas party and the one after the Fall.

"Thank you again," Molly says, her breath warm on his skin. She pulls back and Sherlock can almost see himself reflected in the blacks of her eyes. Molly adjusts her grip on her suitcase. "For the bandages and the food—oh, and thank you for letting me stay here."

_She's fidgeting, _Sherlock realises with a start. His brain screams at him to say something but there are too many thoughts jumbling in his head; at last, he manages to mutter "Any time," which he supposes is better than nothing. Sherlock's not really quite sure about that though.

Molly looks at him and, again, there's something there he tries place. The room's just starting to fall around him when she walks out and leaves him to stare at the door.

.

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**VIII.**

Sherlock enters the staff break room halfway through his morning shift already exhausted. While he has no autopsies on his list today, there is a mountain of paperwork waiting for him in his office. The reports are easy enough to accomplish and he can probably finish them in two hours, but his mind keeps wandering to Molly after every line.

He thinks about her chasing Moran's trail from New York to Lausanne, that one week Mycroft lost contact again, and the relief that flooded him when his brother finally sent in a report written on a blurred photo of her having breakfast in a cafe. He thinks about those last few minutes in his flat, the kiss he can still sometimes feel on his cheek, and that final look she gave him. Honestly, Sherlock thinks about that last one the most; he had never seen it before except maybe that time when Molly broke into his flat on her supposed first death anniversary.

Sherlock decides to call it "fondness" since it reminds him a little of how Molly sometimes looks at John. The warmth in her usually impassive stare lightens the colour of her eyes and brings out the gold around her pupils. It is tender and _brotherly, _and Sherlock tries hard not to feel resentful about it. He tells himself that it's better than those years when Molly rarely looked to him for anything other than coffee and a body in the morgue.

He pours himself another cup of coffee even as the knowledge, heavy and bitter, turns in his stomach.

"Sherlock," Mike Stamford calls from one of the tables and he's glad for the distraction. "Rough day?"

"Paperwork," Sherlock answers and Mike nods in understanding, sipping from his own mug. "How about you, Mike? Anything interesting come your way from Scotland Yard?"

"Nothing from Lestrade or Dimmock, but there was a body that came in before your shift. The family requested for a routine autopsy and I found something strange during the examination." Sherlock is listening to Mike explain how he dislodged a very expensive ring from the woman's throat when he recognizes something in his peripheral vision. Turning to the old television set in the corner of the room, he is shocked to find a live news coverage from Molly's apartment block.

Mike turns as well and nearly pours his coffee on his lap. He slams his mug on the table and watches as the camera continues on focus on Molly and John standing behind where Lestrade is addressing the press. "Holy Mary! Is that—SHE'S SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!"

Sherlock ignores Mike's shouts and reaches for the clicker, turning up the volume as loud as it can go.

"Mr. Sebastian Moran has been in the custody of New Scotland Yard since 11:17 this morning. Aside from charging Mr. Moran with the attempted murder of Molly Hooper—" The sound of cameras flashing and the reporters scuffling to get closer echoes in the room. On screen, Sherlock can see Sergeant Donovan and a few others from Scotland Yard push the crowd back.

"As I was saying," Lestrade starts again as sweat gathers on his brow, "aside from charging Mr. Moran with the attempted murder of Molly Hooper, we may also add to his list of charges based on the evidence forwarded to us by Miss Hooper. As to what exactly these charges may be, we cannot say yet. That is all the information we can disclose to you at the moment. Thank you for your cooperation."

The camera shakes and it's all noise as reporters try to follow Lestrade to where he is now talking to Molly and John on the steps of the building. Sherlock sees Mike, eyes wider than ever, finally turn from the television to face Sherlock. "Did you—did you know about this?"

The shock over learning about Molly's return London from the news covers up everything else, and Mike believes it when he shakes his head in reply. Sherlock excuses himself and hurries back to the laboratory, forgetting his coffee on his way out.

.

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**IX.**

"New mobile," John comments much too casually for it to be real. The way he keeps his eyes on the screen of his laptop and his fingers moving over the keyboard tells Molly everything.

"I know Mycroft told you that it came from Sherlock," she says, rolling her eyes as she pockets the gadget. Molly wonders if she should call his fib (she's checked and "The Adventure of the Empty House" was posted nearly two hours ago) or wait for him to reach his point. Remembering how cross John had been with her up until she finished explaining the past three years to him last night, Molly makes the wise decision of choosing the latter.

"That was nice of him," John continues in the same deliberate tone.

"I agree. I suppose it's a thank you for the book I gave him." Molly settles back into her armchair with a new cup of tea.

"Book?" John asks, understandably surprised. She rarely gives presents without him prompting her to do it.

Molly nods, looking outside the window. "Yes, I gave him a copy of _Beekeeping for Dummies._"

"Ah. You still haven't deleted that bit about him then," he says as his brows furrow in concentration; he gives up all pretenses of typing and turns to her instead, his head tilted slightly. It is clear that John's working something out, turning the ideas over in his head, and Molly find herself struggling to keep up. "Right. Right. So, do you, uh, want to talk about it?"

"It?" Now it's Molly who is baffled by the sudden turn of the conversation. _He's obviously not talking about beekeeping—_

"Or him." John's ears are tipped with red and he's scratching the back of his neck when she faces him. Uncomfortable, Molly observes. "Granted Harry's never asked me for advice—not that she was ever interested in men, I think—but I am a bloke, so that should be…helpful."

_Oh._

"John, please don't think that you need to have this conversation with me."

"I honestly don't want to do this either, Molly, but as your friend—"

"No, really, it's not necessary," Molly protests, putting down her tea on the table. Maybe hand gestures will get the point across.

"Yes, it is! You can't just keep pretending these feelings don't exist, Molly," John replies heatedly. He's moving past his initial embarrassment and Molly can see the 'alone doesn't protect you' speech coming up soon. "If you'd just let me—"

"Not. Necessary," Molly draws out each word into its own sentence. "Dilated pupils, increased heart rate, dry mouth, heavy breathing—I know what those things point to, John. I don't need you or Mycroft Holmes to state the obvious."

The flat is quiet for some time after that. Molly picks up her cup again and sips while waiting for John to regain the ability to blink.

"You don't," he says as Molly nods in agreement. John closes the laptop and heads to the kitchen for some tea. Lots and lots of tea, to be honest. "And did you say something about Mycroft? I think everything turned into white noise after you said…yeah."

"Yes, I did. He tried to give me a similar speech while I was in New York." Molly frowned at the memory of that conversation. "It was uncomfortable to say the least. Disturbing, really. It was lucky that my target finally exited the building and I was able to drop that call."

.

.

**X.**

Sherlock carefully nudges the door to his flat to avoid waking Mrs. Hudson with the usual creak. After a six hour shift and one long chat with his boss (who, no doubt, came from her own meeting with Mycroft), he is ready to drop to the floor and sleep where he lands. He's contemplating it with all the seriousness he can muster at two in the morning when a voice cuts through the silence.

"Maybe I should come back later."

Sherlock starts and almost collides with the nearest wall. "Molly?" He peers cautiously at the shadows in his sitting room when the lights from the kitchen suddenly flicker on behind him. "Shit!"

Molly gets up from the stool and hikes her bag on her shoulder. Even though his eyes feel ready to hide forever behind his lids, Sherlock still recognizes the smile that is tucking itself in the corner of her mouth. "Right, well, I think this can wait."

"No, no, stay." He leaves his things on the couch before joining her in the kitchen. "This is definitely about something important if you stayed up to wait for me here."

"What makes you say that?" Molly asks, looking at him curiously as she sits back down.

Sherlock walks to the cabinet and takes out a cup and packets of sugar. He pours himself coffee from the pot on the counter while nodding to her empty cup on the kitchen table. "I might not be like you or Mycroft, but I do pick up on a couple of things."

Sherlock sits on the chair opposite Molly's, and stirs in the sugar. "So, what do you need?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee," Molly asks in a tone as deliberately nonchalant as John's that afternoon. She cringes and tries again. "I was wondering if you'd like—"

Sherlock's brain struggles to keep up in its half-dead state. He looks at her before staring down at his cup. "But I'm already drinking coffee…"

There is a moment of silence and Molly shifts uncomfortably on her seat. Maybe she should have listened to John's warning about euphemisms—

"Wait," Sherlock interrupts, eyes wider than she ever remembers seeing them. Molly casually notices that the teaspoon he used is now half-drowning in coffee. "Did you just ask me out for coffee?"

"Yes." Molly nods. "Maybe after your shift on Friday in the Costa down the street from St. Bart's."

"Why?" Sherlock asks. Molly doesn't know what's more surprising: his question or the fact that he's moving to her side of the table. Sherlock carefully watches her face, waiting for something she doesn't know.

Dilated pupils, increased heart rate, dry mouth, and heavy breathing—she checks off each one in her head and wonders if any of those are what he's looking for now.

"Do you remember when you asked me why your interest in beekeeping is important?" Molly whispers just loud enough to cross the inches between them. Sherlock nods, his gaze faltering only when she swipes the tip of her tongue over her lips. "It's because you've always counted."

Her last statement hangs above them in the silence that follows. His eyes are glued to hers and it's more unsettling than their constant roaming from a few moments ago. Sherlock looks frozen—_petrified,_ Molly thinks. _Maybe he's in shock? _Even without John, she knows this can't be good.

A look settles on Sherlock's face but he turns away before Molly can study it, leaving her to consider the taut line of his shoulders instead. She wonders if it's worth mentioning how her mind palace is home to other details from his favorite violin pieces (Bach's Partita No. 2 and 3) to his favorite crisps (Walkers' sour cream and chive).

"Yes." This time it's Sherlock who startles Molly out of her thoughts. He moves to stand beside her and she is faintly aware that the air begins to feel thinner with each step. "Coffee this Friday sounds good."

"Good," Molly agrees. Even with his head tilted towards hers, she needs to look up to meet his stare. The proximity results in an influx of new information (the brand of his aftershave, the odd freckle on his face, and the greenish hue of his eyes in the half-light) that is quickly being filed away.

"Exactly."

Sherlock holds on to the _fondness _he recognizes in Molly's eyes that warms him until he feels a flush creep past his collar. The light brown contrasts sharply with her dilated pupils, and he wonders if that last bit is new or something he missed until now. Sherlock ignores the hammering in his chest and leans a little closer, determined to try a theory.

Her pupils widen a little more until he's close enough to count her short, uneven breaths. Sherlock can feel her bottom lip ghosting over his own, and suddenly, it becomes a test of his self-restraint. The silence stretches the minutes until his mind grows foggy and his eyes start to lose focus. It occurs to him that this is pushing it too far too soon, and there is a very real chance he might lose consciousness if—

Molly presses her lips to his with the same softness she uses on his cheeks. It's chaste and the word "brotherly" rears its ugly head again until Sherlock feels her tongue slide over the seam of his mouth. He startles, eyes snapping open _(when did they even close?), _but Molly grabs at his shirt to keep him still. She licks the arches of his cupid's bow, tasting and memorizing their shape, before switching her attention to the fullness of his lower lip.

Sherlock himself is only half-aware of Molly's progress or the fact that his hands are flat against her shoulder blades. When Molly finishes, she leans back just far enough so that he can still feel her breath fanning over his cheeks. "How about Wednesday instead?"

"Hmmm, Wednesday?" Sherlock murmurs almost a full octave lower than usual. His brain starts to recover and it decides that what just happened—whatever it's supposed to be called—was undoubtedly better than a kiss. _Not brotherly then, _he thinks triumphantly.

Molly pulls away, smirking as Sherlock abruptly retracts his hands from where they'd been lazily caressing her sides. "To meet for coffee instead of Friday."

"Wednesday's when I have the midnight shift," Sherlock starts, his fingers folding over themselves in an obvious attempt to keep occupied. Molly wonders if he is fighting the urge to pull her back to him; the thought is almost enough to keep her there before Molly remembers that John is waiting back in their flat.

_Maybe I should leave out the last seven minutes? _Molly considers sparing her friend the details (John will surely spit out his sixth cup of tea), but thinks better of it. After all, she did promise him a full report.

"No one can look after the morgue if I leave—"

"Which is why I'll bring the coffee to you," Molly interrupts smoothly. She flashes him a smile before turning to leave.

"You'll bring the coffee—wait, what?" Sherlock follows Molly to the coat rack and watches as she quickly fastens each button of her coat.

"I think you'll agree that it's only fair that I bring you coffee this time," Molly says, slipping a familiar blue scarf around her throat. She hitches the strap of her bag over a shoulder. "Black with two sugars, yes?"

Sherlock blinks, surprised. "Exactly."

Molly silently opens the door and turns to him. "Wednesday?"

Sherlock catches the passing look she gives his mouth and feels the heat start to rise again on his face. "Yes, Wednesday." He looks up just in time to see her grin before closing the door behind her.


End file.
